


Liquid in Your Mouth

by Spitshine



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1, Anal Sex, Author Knows Nothing of Canon, Bondage, Crying, Dacryphilia, Daddy Kink, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, Ex-Catholic Wade Wilson, Excessive Wetness, Fisting, Front-Hole Fucking, Gags, Insecurity, Knitting, Lingerie, M/M, Off-Screen Kink Negotiation, Oral Fisting, Oral Sex, PWP, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slapping, Spanking, Switching, The Porn Is the Plot, Trans!Peter Parker, Use of the Word Cunt About a Trans Guy, Wade Wilson: World's Mushiest Dom, blindfold, boot kink, pressure points, rope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: Five times Peter was too much for Wade to handle and one time Peter didn't understand what was so hard about topping, anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a hundred thousand thanks to evilkneazle and crockzilla for the betaing and cheerleading, respectively (and to both of them for indulging my eldritch screeching), and to one ani difranco for fueling all my writing binges
> 
> this is roughly half done (going off the assumption that each chapter is longer than the one before it, which seems to be whats happening bc peter is Extremely Greedy and won't let me write a simple goddamn fuck) and i hope to get it all up before kinktober starts but like. we'll see

The first time Wade got his baby boy in a gag, he only lasted about twenty seconds. Not he-Spidey. He-Wade. Peter could take almost anything, had a hard time admitting the rare times he couldn't, and was basically insatiable on top of all that.

No, it was Wade who had to tap out. Petey's little pink mouth stretched around the leather-wrapped bit, his brown eyes all big and wide, chest heaving as his breathing went wild and he ground down against the bed—it was, well, it was a lot to take in.

He had known he had liked gags, of course, had seen maybe a thousand pornos featuring them, had tied or taped or buckled them onto lovers before, even tried a spider gag once or twice—but there was something different about this. About the bit, muffling the words but letting every bit of volume through. Something different about Peter, small and vulnerable and unbreakably strong beneath how delicate he looked. And the combination of the two, making Peter look like a pretty pony, desperate to be ridden.

 _Hnnng_.

He just managed to unbuckle the strap holding the gag snug before he keeled over, mouth open and panting, to bury his wet face in the side of Peter's neck, babbling senselessly.

He rolled him over to finger him wet and open and fucked him in apology, slow and deep, a hand heavy on the back of his neck, face shoved into the mattress.

And Peter. Well. Peter just whimpered and whined into the bed, drooling a little, fingers twisted up in the sheets, and hitched his hips up, fucking himself harder on Wade's rough cock, his round little ass bouncing as he came.

And Wade. Well. All he could do was fuck his tiny boyfriend through it, crossing himself at his own good fortune, before he leaned low over Peter's back, teeth sinking into baby boy's shoulder and eyes rolling back in his head. His hips stuttered out of rhythm and he came, brain dribbling out through his cock.

He came and he came and he collapsed heavily on top of Peter, who stayed there, sweaty and content, until Wade's dick softened and flopped out and he wriggled around drunkenly to lay on his back, fingers drifting slow across Wade's skin, tracing the patterns of scars.

Peter kissed him once, twice, his mouth, his cheek, and asked petulantly, “Why did you take the gag off, daddy?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im meant to be casting on a hat right now but oh gosh my friends i was feeling so hesitant about this fic and then i got so many nice comments oh wow! so i decided to edit chapter 2 right now and post it to get more of those sweet sweet comments

Wade didn't want to go to a shibari class. He _wanted_ to stay home and tie Peter up in the safety and comfort of their own apartment. 

You might think that he might not need a class, that he had had plenty of experience tying people up in his, er, line of work. But as a matter of fact he, um... didn't keep people alive long enough to tie them up until uh. Fairly recently.

Anyways. Staying home. Going out. Right.

Kink workshops in general, and rope workshops in particular, in his experience (fairly extensive before the whole... scars everywhere... thing) tended to be full of straight people, straight dudes, that particular kind of straight white cis man who would lecture anyone in any subject. And in that particular environment, they often were holding court with one or more young, svelte, blonde, well, “rope bunnies” is what they allegedly preferred to be called?

Wade kinda maybe wanted to gag just thinking about it.

But Peter had big brown eyes and very dark, very long lashes (on top of which he often used mascara—unnecessary and and unfair and uncalled for in Wade's opinion) and he _really _wanted to “get out in the community” and “meet people” and generally be some kind of people-liking extrovert__

__so Wade went._ _

__Which is how he'd ended up here, now, fumbling some weird intricate knot between his too-thick fingers as he tried to watch what was going on in the front of the workshop from the back corner where he'd ensconced himself as soon as he'd arrived. He pulled his hood further over his face and tried again._ _

__He was only a few bends in when something tangled again. He pulled the rope off Peter's wrists, swearing softly under his breath, and started pulling out the kinks to try again._ _

__“Baby, turn around.”_ _

__“But it's a-”_ _

__“I got'n idea. Lemme try?”_ _

__God fucking knew why, but Peter couldn't resist his puppy eyes any better than Wade could Peter's. He turned around, and Wade arranged his wrists so they crossed lightly at the small of his back. He started at Peter's left shoulder, looping the rope and pulling it through, looping the rope and pulling it through, nice big loops to accommodate Peter's bigger-than-they-seemed biceps._ _

__“Whatcha doing, daddy,” Peter whispered, relaxing into the ropes, into Wade's hands._ _

__“Casting on,” he responded, tongue between his teeth._ _

__Peter made a confused, inquiring noise, but Wade was too deep in focus to respond. He got to Peter's wrist and fished a new rope out of their bag before starting again on the right shoulder. One more rope and back to the wrists, working backwards, pulling the ropes carefully through each loop he'd made before, casting both arms off at once, finishing off at the shoulder with a jaunty little circus bow. He gave a thoughtful little hum and spun Peter around to see if it held, see how it looked from the front._ _

__Oh._ _

__It looked—good._ _

__Peter's arms stretched back behind him, made his already muscley shoulders look bigger and wider, gave a decidedly “Captain America” vibe to his chest. Wade rolled his tongue up off the floor and dragged his eyes up to Peter's face, which—_ _

__was _drunk_ , drunker and way more stupid than Wade could remember him getting on such a small amount of play before; he couldn't have been working on the “knitting” for more than five or ten minutes, and Peter certainly hadn't been on his way under when he was cursing and fumbling and failing to replicate the elegant tie being shown at the front of the class._ _

__But this. It was clever and looked just fine and best of all, it held against Spidey's sexy, satisfied little wiggles. He watched as his boy's breathing got slower and deeper and he blinked sluggishly, beatifically, like some stoned seventeen-year-old about to announce his spiritual breakthrough._ _

__“Daddy,” he rasped._ _

__“Yeah, baby?”_ _

__“Wanna suck you.”_ _

__“Can't, here.” Christ on a cracker, his throat was dry._ _

__“Bathroom, daddy. Down the hall. Remember.”_ _

__Couldn't argue with a logic like that. “Okay, baby. If that's what you want. Let me just-”_ _

__Peter squawked indignantly and yanked his arms away as Wade reached around him to get at the knot._ _

__“Leave it. Like y're. Hugging me.”_ _

__“Alright then. I'll just help you up.” Wade grabbed the duffel with one hand—did NOT want to come back in here if he could possibly avoid it—and Peter's tricep with the other, hauling him upright and out the door as fast as he reasonably could._ _

__The bathroom wasn't a long walk, around a corner and down a corridor, but it seemed to stretch on and on as Wade worried someone from the class was going to come chase them down, say that they couldn't leave early or that Wade didn't deserve such a beautiful sweet pliant boy or that, or that-_ _

__but they were there. And Peter was pulling him into the bathroom now, yanking his tied arms against Wade's clenched hand, bullying him up against the tile wall, falling heavily to his knees and panting frantically against the line of Wade's hard dick._ _

__He lifted a shaking hand to help and Peter snapped at him, bared his perfect little teeth and honest-to-god _snarled_. He fumbled the button and zipper open with his teeth, his tongue, his grasping little lips and immediately sunk down on Wade's cock, right down to the tonsils._ _

__He was too subby and drunk to be anything but sloppy, too much enthusiasm and not enough coordination, but Wade was honestly l i v i n g for it. It'd been a while since he'd seen Spidey so far down, and never so hard so fast, and it was endearing, really, the way his normally immaculate little cocksucker slurped and choked and slobbered like a newly-hatched twink on prom night. Or like. The gay cultural equivalent of prom night._ _

__But Wade never did tease out what that might be (church camp? first Pride?) because Peter, little Peter, humped his shoe, Wade's shoe, right there on the sticky bathroom floor, whined around his mouthful of cock and made the broken, surprised little moan that always preceded his orgasms._ _

__Wade pulled back a little, just enough to see the tiny furrow in Peter's brow, that little “what's happening to me and why is it so much” look_ _

__and so it was that when Wade came and whited out and cracked his head on the tile and blacked out, it went down Spidey's throat and spilled down his chin and went up his nose, and when Wade blinked his dazed eyes open, it was to Peter desperately trying to lick the spunk off Wade's dick and pants and off his own face, and Wade whited out again at the sight._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AGE DIFFERENCE IS JUST FINE IT'S ONLY I FIND IT A TAD OFF PUTTING WHEN OLDER MALE COMMUNITY SO-CALLED LEADERS CONSISTENTLY DATE WOMEN TWENTY+ YEARS YOUNGER THAN THEM what yeah no i dont participate in my local kink community why


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didnt tag this feminization bc i dont consider princess a gendered term. but go ahead and skip this chapter if that kinda thing bothers you

Wade had been wearing fuck-off big combat boots for probably twenty years without realizing that they could be so good for sexytimes (outside of the obvious Aesthetic of big butch dom daddy and tiny little barefoot twink (but anyway))

and then. And then Peter.

Peter had dropped to his knees when they'd gotten home that evening—just from a walking tour of food trucks in their neighborhood, _not_ from crime fighting, that would be entirely Too Much and not even in the good way—had dropped to his knees and pinned Wade to the wall by his hips, looked up through his long long lashes and whispered just as sweet as could be, “Your boots are _awfully_ dirty, sir.”

“I can—take em off?” They weren't usually a no-shoes-in-the-apartment couple but if his baby was on a new cleanliness kick, Wade was more than happy to indulge him.

“That won't get them any cleaner, daddy,” his perfect, incomparable boy sassed from right there on the floor. “Leave them on,” he added in a raspy voice, practically a moan, and slid his hands down to Wade's thick calves and squeezed, the tights muscles relaxing instinctively in his strong grip. “Leave them on, daddy . Come sit on the couch and I'll clean 'em for you.”

“Gotta let me up then, baby.”

Wade took a few wobbly steps to the couch, praying that his legs weren't shaking visibly, and sank into the deep cushions. His eyes were glued, of course, on his little Spidey princess.

Who was crawling.

Looking up at him through those thick lashes, tongue dangling out of his mouth like he was just too thirsty to reel it back in. His skinny jeans looked painted on, like always; the thin fabric of his loose-fitting v-neck draped deeply off his body so Wade could see all the way down his chest, all the way to his jeans. 

He moved across the floor like a cat, one of those big slinky ones, a cheetah maybe, and Wade didn't care it was a cliché, this is _why_ it was a cliché, that right there was the best thing to look at in the whole fucking world.

Peter got closer and closer again and Wade's view was blocked by his own knees. He struggled up from the deep cushions and perched on the edge of the couch, widening his knees so Peter could fit right between them, curled up in a little ball like he was. He perched his chin in his hands and looked down just in time to see Peter stretching out his tongue at long as he could to get his first lick, right on the toe.

Peter let out a little gust of air like maybe he was moaning, but Wade couldn't hear anything over the choked groan ripping out of his own chest. The visual did a lot for him, of course, the long stretch of baby's tongue like he just couldn't wait to get his face all the way closer. But he could _feel_ it, even through the thick leather of the toecap. It wasn't a whole lot of sensation, but it was wayyy more than he expected, and with the visual and everything it was—a lot. He hissed a breath in through his teeth, still watching as Peter whimpered like his heart was breaking and licked long wide stripes over his boot, again and again.

Distantly, he realized his dick was—as the pornos said—hard enough to pound nails, throbbing in his BDUs, but it was like there was a fog between himself and his body. His eyes were glued to Peter's kneeling form; his pulse pounded in his ears. He smelled mud and salt. His sense of touch had narrowed, honing in on the dulled sensation of Spidey's mouth on him, licking him desperately.

Peter finished cleaning the toecap, leaving the leather shiny-wet and black for the first time in god-knows-how-long and moved sloppily over the vamp to the instep. He complained a little in the back of his throat when he couldn't crane his neck far enough and squirmed around adorably to get a better angle on daddy's boot and his hands came up to cradle it more securely to him.

As it turned out, the leather there was thinner—a lot thinner. Wade hissed and jackknifed, nearly tugging his foot out of Spidey's grasp.

Good thing for super strength.

His mouth was soft, so soft, soft and sumptuous and wet, and his little fairy fingers were clamped on his ankle and bridge like steel, no give in them at all. His lips were red and wet and dripping, pressed against his honestly filthy boots in something like—adoration. Adulation.

It was too much. Way too fucking much.

Wade collapsed back and sideways, slumping his body in the cushions until he could no longer see his little Spidey. But even that was too much and he had to first close his eyes, then cover them with his hand.

In the dark, surrounded like this, closed in like this, all he could do was focus, and all he could focus on was the wet rasp of his breath against his sweating hands, the feeling, the god damn mother fucking _feeling_ , of Peter's mouth on him.

He wasn't a foot person, he knew that, but something about this—the boot itself? or the taunting separation of leather between his skin and baby's mouth? He did not know and even more to the point, did not give any fucks at all. Every minuscule movement of Peter's mouth against him was multiplied exponentially in what he liked to think of as his pelvic girdle (because even he could only say “cock” so many times and “girdle” certainly brought up the most hilarious mental images of any of the synonyms on offer at thesaurus dot com), which twitched and hummed and thrummed with satisfaction, with desire.

He made a moan that might be best described as a death rattle, and flopped over to tug Peter roughly by the hair, up onto the couch to sprawl over his own body. He looked _wrecked_ , eyes black all the way through and his mouth a gaping, drooling red mess. Wade didn't know he had told his hand to do it, but there it was, sliding down his face and slipping two, three fingers in there.

Peter groaned and rutted forward desperately, thighs opening to catch Wade's dick against the hot pulse of his cunt, eyes rolling back in his head as he sucked desperately, his tongue coming out to lick at Wade's pinky.

“You're fucking dirty, princess,” he growled approvingly, thumbing at his boy's swollen bottom lip. “Couldn't stop yourself from slurping all over my muddy boots, 'n now you're deepthroating my hand. Little slut.”

The slut in question moaned, deep in his throat, and dropped his jaw as wide as it went, locking eyes with Wade as if to say, “With all due respect, sir, is that all you got?”

That was nice. Wade didn't particularly want to pull his hand out to negotiate properly. He shifted so his fingertips caught just behind Peter's bottom teeth, pushed down on the pressure points under the tongue. Peter _sobbed_ and threw his head back, grinding his jaw up into the pain.

Well, that didn't get his attention the way Wade intended.

He swatted the side of his boy's face, just lightly (anything harder would only set him off again) and scolded, “Stop that and get your shirt off, baby.”

“Pnts, d-dy?” he slurred, arms twisted up in the fabric.

Wade took a moment to appreciate the view before he answered, the chubby little curve of Peter's belly and slick black fabric of his binder. “Don't worry about it, baby,” he said, pulling his boy to lay on top of him, slotting one big thigh between Peter's. “Not gonna take long.”

Peter had to hold himself up a little or Wade wouldn't be able to get his hand in his mouth, which was mean, he knew, but. Rank has its privileges?

He planted one foot on the floor and one on the arm of the couch and when Peter took four fingers into his mouth, sucking them down to the knuckles, he started rocking. Peter moaned and bit down, a little painful, but when Wade ran his thumb over his lip, he loosened up right away, darting down to capture the thumb as well.

Finally full enough (at least for now), Peter whimpered and rutted, faster and faster and then froze, teeth pressed up hard against the bulge of Wade's knuckles.

Wade humped up once, twice more, and came in his own pants, hand falling limply from Peter's mouth, face tucked in the boy's sweaty neck.

He dosed, lazy and content, until he heard a hoarse little voice in his ear, questioning, “...Daddy? You didn't let me finish cleaning your boots?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nb: this is Not approved boot blacking technique the very nice pittsburgh lesbians who taught me what the fuck to do are rolling over in their graves (they are not dead thats how bad this technique is) but you know what peter has superpowers for a REASON and that reason is recreationally exposing himself to virulent nyc germs


	4. Chapter 4

It was _going_ to be a simple spanking. Sit on the couch, get Spidey over his lap, swat him over his jeans a few times... pull his pants down, warm him up properly through his underwear, and then really get down to business, turning his sweet little ass pink and red like a sunset.

A sexy, sexy sunset.

Wade had had to adjust himself in his pants, just thinking about his boy, and celestial bodies, and the warm orange reflected light bouncing off the clouds and onto him, eating cheese and crackers on the fire escape.

But that had all been an hour earlier, before Peter came home early from work and surprised him so badly he choked on his off-brand triscuit and nearly fell off the fire escape, before Peter caught him by the collar and hauled him back inside, smirking all the while.

“Daddy,” he whispered, in the faux-innocent moan Wade pretended to disapprove of but secretly couldn't get enough of. “Daddy, I missed you so much today.” He squirmed up under Wade's arms, pressed their fronts together until Wade could feel the heat pulsing between them. He looked up from under his lashes, dialing the shyness up to eleven. Twelve, maybe. “I couldn't stop thinking about you.”

He gave one last wriggle, and Wade's hand fell from his waist and slid down, fingertips catching under the waistband of his loose-fitting jeans.

Wade flexed his fingers involuntarily and gasped, also involuntarily. That wasn't the rough cotton of the boxer-briefs his boy usually wore. That was—he gulped and took a deep breath in through his nose—that was _satin_ , and, and _lace_ , and

“That all you were thinking about, Spidey?” he asked in a voice gone to gravel. 

“Mmm, mostly all, daddy.” He was laying it on a little thick. If Wade had an upper tolerance for dramatics in bed, they might have been edging close.

Good thing he didn't.

“What else, sweetcheeks? What was my good boy thinking about?”

Peter pressed closer, impossibly closer, and Wade's hand slipped down another few inches. Jesus, there was _nothing_ to the fabric, he could feel the cleft of Peter's ass through the mesh of the lace, warm and soft and inviting... “Was thinking about bein' your bad boy tonight.” He looked down, blushing—the blush, at least, wasn't faked—and then back up again, slowly, to meet Wade's eyes when he said, “Thinking about bein' slutty for you, daddy,” almost in a moan.

Wade had him over the back of the couch in a second flat when he heard that and knew what the game was going to be tonight, wrists crossed at the small of his back and held tight in one of Wade's big hands. “You wanna be a slut, little boy? You wanna get punished?” he heard himself growl as he pushed Peter's jeans down around his knees. He was proud of himself, briefly, for holding it together and sounding so stern. Maybe having Peter not look at him helped.

“No, daddy,” he wailed.

“No is absolutely not a safeword, you goof.” _So much for stern_.

“Mmmph,” Peter agreed, mouth in a pillow.

Wade was tempted, as always, to give into what Peter _would_ keep insisting he wanted and lay into him with no warm up (precious, precocious little Spidey), but as much as his baby boy loved pain, he was an absolute sluuut for sensation and so Wade reminded himself, sternly, to take it slow. Slower than Peter would want, horribly, horrifically slow, until he was whining and begging and sobbing for more.

So he gave himself a minute to take a good, long look at Peter, Peter in his _fucking underwear_. There was a lot of coverage in the style, high waisted and cut to cover almost down to the crease of his thighs... but the fabric.

Gulp.

The fabric was another story. A tiny black satiny triangle to cover the epicenter of his junk, another little black triangle pointing down from his waist to his ass, that was it, and then just lace. Lace everywhere. It was black, but the thread so thin and the weave so fine that it barely hid anything at all.

He let go of Petey's wrists and fell on his knees behind him, and just—rested his hands on the globes of baby's fine, fine ass, trembling in anticipation, and tried to focus not on his own scars, but the way the size of his hands swallowed Petey's ass right up.

He pulled the cheeks apart and let them bounce back together, moaning softly in appreciation when the force sent ripples skating across the chubby little bubble butt. Wade knew his boy sometimes had a hard time with the curve of his hips (just perfect in Wade's opinion but it wasn't really _his_ opinion that mattered here, but, like, damn. A good ass. A good good ass) but Wade also knew that the memory of his Very Gay Boyfriend being so into every single part of him made things a little easier on Peter's dysphoria days. (Wade had had to stop capitalizing “Dysphoria Days” and using jazz hands when Peter complained it sounded like a bad Labor Day sale, to which Wade had replied _all_ Labor Day sales were bad ones, and then they had got into a long debate of anarchism vs socialism and THEN-)

The point was, Wade felt _incredibly_ justified in getting as absolutely self-indulgent with Peter's ass as he wanted before he got down to the actual spanking part.

So, he petted it. He groped it. He grabbed it—lightly, and then hard again. He pulled the knickers down far enough to tuck his big thumbs in just below Peter's teensy asshole and spread him out as wide as he could, until the skin stretched red and tight and painful-looking and he could catch the tiniest glimpse of the wet insides of his baby's cunt.

Through it all, Peter sighed and moaned and babbled, all of his little whimpers and wordless noises the most wonderful music Deadpool had ever heard. 

Just for fun, he grabbed on tight and shook that ass like jello, sending vibrations up and down Peter's body, making his voice shake and shiver. His moans went vibrato, and he arched up and back, pleading silently, begging with his hips.

Wade was only human and he couldn't deny his baby something he obviously _needed_ so badly.

Seriously. It sounded like he might die so Wade dug his fingers in hard, counted the ten bruises Spidey was gonna have, just to ground himself a little, and rested his head against his own hand, so he could see e v e r y thing, so his hot wet breath would gust against Spidey's hole when he talked, when he panted loud deep breaths because he was so turned on he was _going to fucking die_

and spread his boy's ass out, pulling the skin tight again, pulling until it _hurt_ , until Peter cried and begged and Wade could hear the tears in his voice. 

“Need something, baby?”

“Daddy, why are you doing this, please, I thought you were gonna spank me?”

He scooted his face a little closer, let his tongue fall out of his mouth and trace the thinnest line up Peter's tailbone. “You sure, sweet thing? Spanking? That's what you want?”

“Yuh-huh daddy, I need it. Spank me real hard. So it hurts when you fuck me.”

Jesus _FUCK_. Wade fell right the god damn motherfucking _shit_ over, barely got his hand under him in time not to break his _fucking nose_ which didn't even matter really, but _Spidey could hear_ and that would seriously blow his cool.

So, he got back up fast enough he could pretend—to Peter, if not himself—that it was all on purpose, to get those adorably piteous little whines, as if he was going to die from not being touched, bless his pure sweet subby piece-of-shit soul, and stand up and get ready to spank him.

Just to be mean, he started at the very top of Petey's ass, practically the back, and light enough he didn't even have to worry about clipping the kidneys.

He wasn't completely a jerk though, and got into the meat of his ass soon enough, hitting hard—not with his full strength, not yet, but enough to make the skin good and red. Enough for Peter to yelp and squirm and take a break from admonishing Wade to do it harder, harder goddamn you.

He stopped, shook out his fingers, and started in again, harder this time, so Peter buried his face between two cushions and yelled and yelled, stomping his little elven feet and thumping the side of the couch with his little elven fists. He went for a minute, maybe three, maybe four, until his aim was a little off, a little low, and his hand slipped, his fingers sliding in—

—ohhhOH, that was. Holy shit, that was Peter so wet, so fucking needing to be filled, that his sweet tiny cunt, like one of those pinprick black holes, was sucking closer anything in its orbit.

“You done getting spanked, then, buckeroo?”

“Mmfvmph.”

“Come again?”

With a great effort of shaking arms, Peter pulled his head out of the pillows long enough to mutter, “Never,” and promptly collapsed, drooling a little. Just the cutest.

Wade pushed his fingers forward a little, so he had two fingertips sunk in where Peter was boiling over, that hot and that wet, and asked, “No more of this then, pet?” absolutely as dry as he could manage.

Peter kicked his feet and rolled his neck and _yelled_ , loud and wordless and just angry as heck to be presented with that kind of choice.

He pushed further in, up to the second knuckle, hissed when he felt how swollen Peter was. He couldn't slow himself down after that, not with that strong, throbbing wall of muscle rippling and clenching around him, pulling him in.

He turned his hand so he could fuck all the way in, shoved in deep and hard so Peter whined when his knuckles hit, so his scars roughed up that soft soft skin where Peter let him—where Peter let him _in_. Let _him_ in.

“Daddyyy, c'mon,” Peter interrupted his navel-gazing. “Gimme, gimme, gimme more, c'mon, I can take it daddy, please.”

“I know you can, baby,” he soothed. “You can take anything. But,” he pulled back so his fingertips were just resting on his baby's g-spot, just lightly, “do you think you deserve it? You were _awful_ naughty earlier, weren't you?”

Peter sobbed and jerked backward, trying to get Wade's fingers back.

“I'll be good, daddy, I'll be good, I promise, just please-”

Merciful, he went to three and quickly four fingers, Peter so wet and his arm moving so fast the boy was practically _frothing_ , yelling so much and so loud it was hard to tell when he was coming and when he was just begging to.

In awe and in wonderment, Wade watched his fingers disappear over and over again, tucked his nose as close in as he could without punching himself in the face.

Peter was more wound up than Wade had ever seen him, hollering and sobbing and begging no matter how much he got. “Daddy, I need more,” he cried.

“You want my cock, baby?”

Peter let out a broken sob. “No, I need _more_. Give me more, please, please, I need it!”

Wade pressed his face against his boy's thigh as he realized what Peter meant and took deep, steadying breaths. “Lemme take you to bed, baby. You can have as much as you want, just let me take you to bed.” He stood up and pushed his fingers in one last time, deep as he could until his knuckles threatened to pop in, breathed in one long deep breath and pulled his hand away in a flash, grabbed Peter's hair and yanked him onto his tiptoes so he could growl right in his ear,“If you wanna get fucked, you gotta walk, baby cakes,” and lick up his cheeks where they were all dirty and salty.

They stumbled down the hallway together, Peter letting more than a little bit of his weight dangle from Wade's fingers fisted through his sweaty, dirty hair—but not taking the support of Wade's other hand when it was offered, a gentle touch against baby boy's side.

When they got into the bedroom (it was only a dozen steps, really) he let go so he could watch Peter bobble forward on his drunk Bambi legs, landing haphazardly on the bed and only managing to get his knees under him and lift his ass up with the most focused of effort.

Peter whined something unintelligible, miniature shivers jumping all over his skin, and trembling with how bad he needed to get god damn plowed, and Wade let his jaw drop. Peter couldn't see and anyway, he didn't care about anything by now unless it was fucking him.

So Wade did, slipped three fingers in smooth and easy, rocking them in and out in a sweet, gentle rhythm, just to hear Peter's groan of frustration, deep and rough in his chest.

“You think you're ready for the whole thing, sweetheart?”

“Uhn. Uhn. Uh-huh, yeah, daddy, yes.” Peter was visibly pulling himself together to answer, swallowing back his moans of anticipation to get the words out. “Daddy, all of it, please, I need it, I need it-”

His blather cut off suddenly so the only sounds in the room were Wade's labored breathing and the slick sound of his knuckles squelching against the edges of Peter's hungry, hungry little hole as he rotated his wrist, screwing in deeper and deeper. The moment stretched between them, silent and flawless and fragile, stretching longer and longer and thinner and thinner like one of Spidey's webs when they swung home late at night and it stretched and it stretched

and it shattered over them as his whole hand popped in, Peter's moan cracking open the air between them. Every one of his nerve endings had moved to the skin of his right hand and slowly, like he was disturbing something precious and holy, he took his beaked-up fingers and tightened them into a fist, made himself into a fat, hard bulb and rocked back so Peter squealed and squirmed and clenched and Wade

Wade came just like that, gasping with disbelief and messing his pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even peter can't come up with a sassy quip directly after being fisted. he's only super human


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally the chapter i wrote this gosh dang fic to get to!
> 
> also apologies if the editing isnt up to snuff my brain hasnt worked in about a week but do feel free to point out any glaring mistakes

Wade hadn't planned on doing anything too exciting that evening. He'd been excit _ed_ , of course, on the way home, letting his head loll back against the hard train seat as he thought of Peter waiting at home, little Peter who had his share of problems but was perfect all the same.

But it was relatively tame stuff running through his head, then, barely kinky at all really, just himself laying on the kitchen floor with all his clothes on, making Peter strip and ride him... scratching red welts down his smooth tender thighs... Peter struggling to keep a rhythm as he got closer and closer to orgasm...

Tame, that was, until he crawled through the window (he'd lost their only key weeks ago and since they were on the fifth floor with no fire escape, neither of them was really worried about anyone _else_ breaking in), crawled through the window and fell right off the sill and onto the bedroom floor in an undignified heap.

Gulp.

Peter—Peter was—Peter—he was laid out on the bed, naked, feet nearly hanging off the bed with how wide his legs were spread, two fingers disappearing into where he was wet and pink and open.

“Missed you, daddy,” he rasped. God, he sounded fucking _wrecked_.

Wade picked his jaw up off the floor and forced himself to speak. “You know you're not supposed to come without me, baby boy.”

“Didn't, daddy. M'good boy. Been waiting for you.” His voice was barely louder than the squelch of another finger joining the first two. Down on the floor like he was, he had a good angle on the action on the bed, a fantastic angle really, could practically see the clear little hairs that had recently started dusting Peter's knuckles, could see how wet he was, dripping down his thighs, could see a glint of metal-

“Baby boy?” 

“Mmm?”

“What's that?”

“Whass what, d'ddy?”

“The-” He swallowed. “The metal, baby.”

Nothing could have prepared him for Peter flopping over in a tangle of bambi limbs, spreading his ass with the hand not buried in his cunt, the steel shine of the oval handle sticking out of his asshole, clenching and unclenching in the same rhythm as his fingers, fucking in and out and in.

Wade was reasonably sure that without his regeneration he would have died right then. No baseline human could have survived a sight like that.

“Wass empty, daddy. Sooo empty.” Had the little brat put _himself_ in subspace? He sounded drunk already.

“Take your fingers out of there,” Wade ordered, and hoped his voice didn't sound as trembly as he felt. Peter whimpered piteously but complied, arm collapsing limply against the bed. “Clean 'em off.” Peter's whining cut off immediately, replaced with a hungry, muffled moan as he stuffed his hand fully into his mouth. “I'll be back in two minutes, and you better not move while I'm gone. Or come,” he added in what he prayed was a stern voice.

He practically ran out to the hallway and collapsed against the wall, hands on his knees and head low to facilitate literally any blood getting to his brain. He allowed himself three big breaths, lungs working like a bellows, before he took the two steps to the living room to gather the supplies he was 72% sure were still buried in the couch cushions.

When he got back to the bedroom, Peter was exactly where he'd left him, grunting like the happiest piglet on the farm while he deepthroated his own fingers, brown eyes locked on Wade's, wide and unashamed.

Saints above. It was too much.

“Good boy,” he said in a strangled voice. “Kneel up for me, okay?”

Peter struggled up to his knees, two fingertips still hooked over his bottom teeth, dragging his lip down as they slowly—slowly—slowly succumbed to gravity.

Wade blinked and shook his head to remember the task at hand. He walked over to the bed and brushed Peter's sweaty hair back from his forehead. “It smells like sex in here, baby. Are you sure you didn't come?”

Peter's answering squawk was indignant, to say the least. “Didn't! M'good, daddy!”

“Yes, you are,” Wade soothed. “You're the best ever. You're so good, in fact, that you get a blindfold tonight. Sound good, baby boy?”

Peter nodded enthusiastically, damp hair bouncing. “Yes, please.”

Wade tied it, tight, checking the fit to make sure that when Petey lost his head and started flailing around, it didn't slip off. When he was satisfied it was tight enough—but not too tight—he coaxed the boy down to the bed to lay on his back, legs wide, heels hooked over the edge of the mattress. Damn, he looked _good_ like that. He might even agree that he looked good—chest flattened by gravity, hips disappeared into the spread of his legs, mouth open, muscles in his arms standing out from how hard he gripped the sheets, cunt looking butcher than ever, “flushed an angry red” as the fanfictions would say. Wade pulled out his phone and snapped a picture (he could always deleter it later if he was wrong about Peter liking it) before throwing his phone on the carpet and crawling on the bed with the bag of supplies he'd grabbed from the couch.

Wade slipped the head of the silicone cock into him, knowing perfectly well that while he himself went absolutely crazy for the thing, Peter did not prefer it. It was the wrong temperature, he said—not cold like stainless steel or hot like flesh—and too light inside him; besides, it was _nowhere near as intimate as you fucking me with your own body, daddy_ but Wade could only fuck him with his “own body” for so long and tonight, he wanted to draw it out.

And anyways, it still gave him something to clench down on, it wasn't like getting fucked with something that wasn't at the _very top_ of his “Things I Like Getting Fucking Nailed By” list was going to stop Peter from getting off. Wade giggled aloud at the thought, but he doubted Peter could hear him over his long, breathy moans, louder and more hollow-sounding as the dildo sunk further and further into him. 

He must have been edging himself for quite a while, because he came on the second thrust, before he even got the chance to complain about it not being Wade's dick or fingers inside him.

He waited until Peter had _almost_ finished coming to flip the switch in the end of the dildo and fuck it in, harder and faster and deeper than before, angling it down to make sure it would rub against the heavy metal plug. Even his teeth were clacking as he came a second and then a third time.

Wade flicked the vibe off and fucked Peter shallowly as he came down, gentling him through the afterglow. When he was really and truly done (for now—he shook his head internally—the little slut) Wade pulled it out until the head just rested on Peter's wet cunt, keeping him just the slightest bit open. “Done, baby,” he teased?

Peter moaned crankily.

“I couldn't understand you, sweetheart. Did you say yes?”

He scrubbed a hand across his face, his mouth, and spoke creakily. “Pssftsht, daddy. Uh uh. You know better.”

“What do you want daddy to do next then?”

“Fuck me, daddy,” Peter begged, and Wade just knew his eyes were huge and pleading under the blindfold, filled with tears maybe and it was. It was a nice image.

But so was the picture before him, Peter's little body arching off the bed and towards him, swallowing the dildo as it sunk into him again and again, Peter groaning with frustration at being filled with something he liked second-best and moaning with the pleasure of being filled at all.

“If you want something, baby, you only have to ask,” Wade reminded him sweetly, delighted by the answering unintelligible curses—Peter's mouth was full, again, of his own hand, the fingers of his other tangled frantically in his hair. “Something different, or something you'd like better, I'm listening.”

It seemed Peter had no requests, though, so Wade fucked him slow and steady, watched his body coil tighter and tighter, until he came hard, yelling and sobbing with it. There were tears coming out from under the blindfold, bless him. Just fucking precious.

Wade loved being inside Peter, _obviously_ , but there was something about this, clothed and unexposed and almost, _almost_ uninvolved, Peter naked and vulnerable and helpless to the orgasms Wade gave him, being touched how and when and where Wade said and no more. He thought about ending it, shoving his own pants down and fucking him the way he knew the boy wanted, fucking him until they were both shaking and spent, sweaty and shell-shocked and wrapped up in each other's arms, but then he decided

nah

Peter could come one more time by himself. 

So Wade pulled the dildo all the way out, turned the vibration back on, and just rubbed it against Peter's cunt, right at the base of it where the vibrations were strongest. He didn't think this was really enough to get him all the way off, but he was pretty sure it could get him good and worked up in the meantime.

It only took five, maybe ten minutes, before Peter was utterly beside himself, incoherent as he desperately chanted, “Daddy daddy please daddy,” writhing and twitching and bucking helplessly upward, trying to get more, get enough. Wade took pity, a little, and tossed the vibe carelessly away to slip two fingers inside Peter. His g-spot was huge and swollen, impossible to miss, and Wade rubbed it relentlessly in firm, sure circles. (Counterclockwise—someone had told him once that one direction made someone wet and the other made them squirt, but he could never remember which direction was supposed to be which, so usually just picked one and decided that was it. Peter hadn't squirted yet, but Wade wasn't done trying.)

Peter wailed and fell apart, clenching his thighs and his hands around Wade's wrist, pulling him closer. The back of his head dug into the bed and, as tight as Wade had tied it, the blindfold started to slip, and he couldn't have that. He wasn't quite ready to be looked at, not the way Peter looked at him, like he saw with not his eyes but with his whole soul. It was good, it was real good, but it was—a lot, and Wade was just about at good-things-overload as it was.

He waited until Peter was done coming, more or less, his throat-wrecking groans retreating into soft, voiceless whimpers, and gently rolled him over onto his face and knees. “That's a good boy,” he soothed as he did. “That's my good, sweet boy. Almost done, baby, you're almost there.” He spared one hand to unzip his pants and shove them down enough for his dick to spring free (it had been working on its escape tunnel for about a year) and fucked into Peter immediately, too far gone to tease either of them any longer. 

He hissed through his teeth as he bottomed out. When Peter was wound up like this, it was impossible to tell when he was coming and when he just coming down or working up to it. He'd asked, and Peter said he couldn't really tell the difference either—when he was that far gone, categorization was gone, the world was narrowed down to just sensations, and he couldn't process value judgements enough to say what was properly orgasmic and what merely felt fantastic.

Which was all to say, Peter was burning hot and dripping wet and clenching tight around him, the little oval handle of the plug winking merrily, coated in his boy's own slick. Peter rocked backward, trying to fuck himself harder, and knocked Wade backward onto the bed.

Backward, and right out of his cunt. He moaned mournfully and tried to scramble back up, but Wade got himself upright and a hand on the back of his neck, pushed him right down into the mattress and held him (still empty—half empty—whatever) and brought the brown paper bag he'd landed on to his mouth.

Peter was entirely Too Much, that eager that needy that _strong_ that beautiful that willing that _Wade's_ and he couldn't take it, he really couldn't, so he kept a hand on Peter's neck and his own head down by his knees and breathed deep slow breaths while his boy fucking keened like his child was being ripped away from him, breathed and breathed until he could believe that this was real, this was his life and he was allowed to have it, to enjoy it, to grab it with both hands and _fuck the everliving shit outta it_.

So he did.

He tossed the bag the way of the dildo (hubris? possibly, especially as he had no idea where either was, now) and grabbed Peter's hips in each hand, plowing into him well and truly. Peter howled and pressed back, arched up, taking Wade deep into his body like his insides were a crowded restaurant and he'd been saving a seat just for daddy.

Wade kinda wished he still had the paper bag. Oops.

To distract himself, he tucked his index finger through the hole in the plug's handle and tugged, pulling the hard base of it against Peter's clenched opening, wiggling it to feel it jostle against his own cock, and rubbed the pad of his thumb right where Peter's ass met the metal, right where everything was wet and soft and hard, felt his thumb slipping in almost before he'd decided to push.

Peter went perfectly still and silent for one long second, and Wade froze, terrified that he'd broken his boyfriend _if you break your toys, you don't get to play with them anymore_ but then Peter came back to life; the sound came rushing back in. Wade let out one long, ragged breath and humped forward desperately, not trying to hold off his own orgasm any longer.

When Wade came back to himself, Peter was curled up against his chest as he patted haphazardly at his chest, blindfold set at a jaunty angle over one eyes. “S'good, daddy,” he was saying. “S'nice. Good j'b.”

“Was that enough yet, baby?”

Peter shook his head no without lifting his face from the pillow and giggled helplessly, his whole body shaking with it. When the laughter finally left him, he stretched out one leg towards Wade in what might generously be termed a kick (a nudge, it was a nudge _at most_ , maybe even a noodge) and shook his ass weakly.

“I'll come right now daddy, see if I don't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the time i tried to put myself under on a train and make daddy deal with my drunk ass in public
> 
>  
> 
> (yes i'm aware i have written 8000 fics featuring this particular plug i swear theyre not paying me IT'S JUST A V GOOD PLUG esp if you are That Kind of bottom (you know) (the bottomless kind))

**Author's Note:**

> look i KNOW peter is a lil smol lil manic pixie trans boy dont AT me i am A Trans i know what i like
> 
> but do come yell at me on [tumblrrr](http://the-knitter-soldier.tumblr.com/)


End file.
